


I'm Fine, He Said

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Broken Bones, Curses, Gen, He's Trying His Best Okay, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I say friendship but you read what you want, Injury, Mind Control, Monsters, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Jaskier’s pain threshold is quite high. That isn't always a good thing.Or5 times Jaskier downplayed an injury in order not to be left behind and one time Geralt called him on his bullshit.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 95
Kudos: 1052





	1. Fever

Jaskier usually followed Geralt for days or weeks on end. It was a thing the witcher had grown accustomed to, no matter how hard he pretended to be annoyed by the musician’s noisy presence. Jaskier only bailed whenever the weather became too inclement, claiming that it would damage his precious lute. Geralt just assumed he was soft and unused to traveling and sleeping outside for too long.

So when they got caught in a storm one afternoon – a mild thing compared to the hurricanes the witcher had witnessed by the coast – it didn’t surprise him to hear the bard complain about how the rain was going to ruin his shoes or the leather of his lute case. He never mentioned his own health, so it never even occurred to Geralt that he could be unwell. Someone complaining that much, that loudly and for that long couldn’t be sick or tired.

The night had already fallen by the time they reached a small town, nothing more than a glorified hamlet. Roach was showing signs of fatigue and kept slipping on the muddy road, and Geralt was afraid she would fall and injure herself. Jaskier was still sputtering a litany of complaints, more to himself than to the witcher. Or maybe Geralt had managed to tune it out after a while.

Thankfully there was an inn, a two-story building with the welcoming light of a fireplace shimmering through the windows. He lightly pushed the bard towards the door and grunted something that meant, “Go see if they have rooms,” while he got his horse settled in the stables around back.

When he finally came in, he was surprised to find Jaskier sitting on a bench, still soaking wet, while the owner and his wife were whispering in the kitchen.

“No rooms?” Geralt asked, as much for Jaskier as for the couple in the back.

The middle aged man who owned the place came forward, apparently happy to have potential customers but also dejected that one of them was a mutant. It still happened a lot, everywhere they went, no matter what catchy songs the bard kept singing about him. People rejected what they feared, and Geralt was pretty scary.

“He never asked for none,” the owner grumbled, nodding towards Jaskier, who was examining his instrument case as if it was his only worry in the whole world for now.

“We’ll take one. And food.”

Geralt pushed a few coins on the counter, and the owner’s eyes shone. His greed must have been stronger than his animosity toward his kind, because he became more affable once he was sure they were paying customers.

His wife came out of the kitchen a moment later, ushering Jaskier to another table as his dripping clothes had made a little puddle under where he sat earlier. She gave him a plate – broth and vegetables from the smell – and muttered about court jesters and mud on her floors.

It was a bit unsettling for Jaskier not to comment on anything the woman was saying. He normally would have tried to sound indignant even though he was a little bit of a court jester at heart, or asked what were the purple things floating in the broth – Geralt had no clue for that one.

Instead Jaskier tripped over his own feet as his lute case shifted, sending him off balance. He dropped the plate, swayed for a second, before toppling over in a very dramatic manner.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed. “I’ll pay you,” he assured from where he sat. His tone implied that it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened and that he was used to it. Jaskier wasn’t the most coordinated person he ever met.

“Money is no concern, Witcher,” the wife said, while her husband muttered his disagreement from behind the counter.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that, looking at his travel companion who was still sprawled on the floor.

“He’s burning up,” the wife continued, sounding accusatory as she laid a hand on Jaskier’s face.

“What?”

“Witcher, you could fry an egg on his forehead,” she warned. “How long has he been sick like this?”

“He was fine,” Geralt growled, because he was, or at least he thought so.

The inn-keeper must have misinterpreted his anger and think Geralt wouldn’t help, because she gripped the arm of the now shivering bard and tried to rouse him.

“Let me–” she started.

“No,” Geralt said, before stepping closer.

He knew the woman was trying to be nice, but he couldn’t help his face to contort into a scowl. He was angry at himself for not seeing it coming, and at Jaskier for being sick and making him feel guilty. So he ground his teeth and looped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, lifting him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. His head lolled to the side and he didn’t say anything, which was unnerving. Waves of heat rolled from his smaller frame, and Geralt shuddered because fevers were never a good thing.

The wife sadly shook her head and said nothing as she led the way upstairs to their room. She was probably expecting Geralt to be rough, so he took extra care of his burden as he laid him on the bed and took off his still damp clothes.

He didn’t understand how it got so bad so quickly. Humans were fragile and vulnerable, but not Jaskier; the bard was always loud and alive. It felt wrong to see him lying so still on the bed as they waited for the healer the inn-keeper went to fetch. His cheeks were bright red and yet he was shivering. Just how long had he had this fever? How long had he planned on walking alongside Geralt until he said something or collapsed?

The healer was an old woman who smelled like tea and herbs. She came barreling into the room, barely acknowledging Geralt's presence. She fretted and tsk-ed over a barely conscious Jaskier before making him drink a foul smelling potion. She threw some mean looks at Geralt, apparently sharing the inn-keeper’s opinion that the witcher was somehow responsible for his companion’s predicament. And maybe he was, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have seen it coming.

“Fever,” the healer finally grumbled. “Exhaustion. He needs rest. Give him the rest of the potion when he wakes up.”

She put the small vial full of a green liquid in Geralt’s hand and put her palm up, expecting payment. The witcher hmm-ed in response, all the while thinking that the old woman might be even worse at communicating than he was.

He settled for the night, keeping an eye on the bard’s sleeping form until morning came and he finally woke.

With bleary blue eyes looking at Geralt quizzically, Jaskier asked with a frown, “Are we still in…”

He trailed, probably not remembering where they were supposed to be at the moment. He pushed his sweaty hair away from his face.

“What were you thinking? Didn’t you know how sick you were?” Geralt asked, but it came out wrong, mean and too harsh.

Hurt flashed in Jaskier’s eyes, if only for a second. Then he smiled a tired smile. Geralt lobbed the half empty vial on the bed covers without a word, and Jaskier accepted it without asking questions. He swallowed what was left of it with a grimace.

“Good stuff,” he joked.

“It was expensive, you’re welcome.”

“Ouch. Sorry for being weak and human,” Jaskier quipped. He sat up in the bed and sniffed his shirt with a frown. “What, no sponge bath?” he asked, and Geralt made a face.

 _Why didn’t you say something?_ The question remained unasked and unanswered all day, even after they came down for lunch.

The owner’s wife kept hovering around their table, nosy and curious.

“You’re too thin,” she told Jaskier, and it felt as if it was somehow meant for Geralt.

“A lot of running for your life will do that,” Jaskier flashed her a smile, and once again Geralt received some mean looks he didn’t think he deserved.

It’s not like he forced the bard to follow him around. He realized he was growling and clenching his fists, and forced himself to stop. But Jaskier must have already been feeling better, because he took upon himself to defend the witcher.

“A good song, you see, can’t come without a little risk taking, and I’m willing to take it.” He shrugged. “I’ll be fine,” he added, but it didn’t totally ease the tension in the room.

His fever had abated, but he was still too hot for Geralt’s liking. Yes, he did check with a casual pat on the bard’s shoulder, or a hand on his nape. Jaskier didn’t comment but the witcher could feel his eyes on him, unsure, silently inquisitive.

There was nothing for them to do in this town; they had never planned on stopping before the storm hit and Jaskier took a turn for the worst. No tavern to sing in, no monsters to hunt. And yet they stayed three days. The wife kept glancing at Geralt, but she seemed less wary than before.

They didn’t really talk it through either. Geralt brooded silently, pretending to be annoyed at being stuck there while the storm still raged outside. But deep down he enjoyed the quiet comfort of the crackling fireplace and the rain pattering on the window panes.

Jaskier became chirpier and chirpier as he was getting better. He took out his lute and started plugging at the cords absentmindedly.

“Do you think that barely escaping an early demise due to a terrible storm would make a good song?” he asked Geralt, who made a throaty noise that meant nothing, because the bard really didn’t need encouragement to compose an ear worm of a ballad out of pretty much anything.

“What rhymes with bone-drenched?” Jaskier asked again, not expecting an answer, and not getting any. He toyed with words for a bit, until he got tired again and put the lute down.

Then the storm passed, and the silences became shorter and shorter until Geralt decided that he had heard too many bad lines in a closed space, and they needed to get going again.

“Next time you’re about to faint, tell me,” Geralt asked outside the inn, not looking at Jaskier.

He was afraid that his face would betray how scared and helpless he had felt that evening three days ago. Jaskier bumped his shoulder, saying, “I didn’t faint, you oaf, I manly passed out from a dangerously high fever.”

“Why do I feel like you’re missing the point?” Geralt sighed, as he saddled Roach and put their bags on the horse’s back.

“Sure, next time I catch an unexpected deadly disease, I’ll make sure to tell you in advance.

They got out of the stable, Geralt guiding Roach and Jaskier waving goodbye to the inn-keepers.

“Come on,” Geralt said to get Jaskier’s attention. “We don’t have all day.”

The bard looked at him, not understanding what he was waiting for. Usually, the witcher had no scruples letting his companion fall behind when he was riding Roach. Geralt nodded towards the still empty saddle, holding the reins.

“Really? If I had known that nearly dying would get me Roach privileges, I would have tried sooner,” he said.

“You didn’t nearly die.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier said, doing his best brooding witcher impression. “I knew there was a heart under that dirty leathery armor,” he joked.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Geralt warned, but he still helped him get on his horse, with a good grip on Jaskier’s collar.

“We’ll get you a cloak,” Geralt said, once again not looking at him. “In case it rains again.”

“For the lute?” Jaskier asked. And Geralt couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Yes, Jaskier, for the stupid instrument.”

Maybe it was because of his prolonged exposure to it, but Geralt didn’t hate the lute as much as he did at first. He could see why it was important somehow.

“No lute would mean only singing, and I’m not sure I can handle it,” he still said with a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me to me: don't post WIP, write the whole thing before posting.  
> Also me: posting a WIP.
> 
> Will update as soon as the rest is written. But don't expect much more plot. Well maybe a tiny bit more. But it'll just be Jaskier getting hurt and Geralt pretending he doesn't worry, because I like that.


	2. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't even supposed to be dangerous. But since when do things go the way they should...

Jaskier didn’t really understand Geralt’s way of thinking, but it never stopped him from trying. Calling him the Butcher of Blaviken would get you punched in the family jewels; apologizing with a (very catchy) song would get him to let you tag along – albeit reluctantly – on some of his adventures. It was fine by Jaskier, even though he knew a normal person would have been wary and scared of the unpredictable reactions of the witcher.

Except they were not that unpredictable. Geralt wasn’t a complicated man, and no matter how hard he pushed everyone away, he still longed for some human contact, he still enjoyed their conversations, even when all he said for hours on end was a few strategic “hmm”. Jaskier understood, or at least he thought he did. 

So when he was rewarded with an okay-sounding grunt after repetitively asking to come on a Leshen hunt, it felt like a birthday gift. Now, what he couldn’t understand was why Geralt was fine with him joining him on this hunt, while he straight out refused for a nekker nest three days ago. As far as Jaskier’s understanding of woodland creatures went, Leshens seemed more powerful and dangerous. But he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Speaking of horses, why did you leave Roach in town?” he asked out loud, talking to Geralt’s broad back.

“Rough terrain. We’re not going far,” he said, trudging through the woods as if he was walking on a paved road.

And as if to prove his point, Jaskier’s foot caught in a sneaky root and he nearly tumbled into the witcher.

“Careful,” he said, without helping or even turning around.

Jaskier was pretty sure he had cat-like reflexes and he would have caught him if he had really fallen, but he was not going to put his theory to the test, so he did his best to watch his steps. The woods were deep, the trees old, twisting into strange shapes that made them look alive. He repressed a shudder, and that’s when Geralt turned around.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jaskier protested, raising his hands.

“That’s my concern,” Geralt said. “You have not sung, recited weird poetry or asked annoying questions for way too long.” 

“My poetry isn’t weird,” Jaskier pouted. “And I feel like we’re being watched,” he added, lowering his voice.

“Leshen,” Geralt said between his teeth.

His face was set, golden eyes scrutinizing the trees ahead, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword.

“Ooh, is the good part about to start?” Jaskier asked, suddenly high on anticipation and excitement. 

“The ugly part first,” the witcher corrected, and Jaskier sensed some dread joining his previous emotions.

He wished he had had some more information about what they were up against first, but then again, he was the one who insisted on coming. He unsheathed the small dagger he might or might not have stolen from a duke’s chamber – it was nice, okay, there were flowers on the hilt. Geralt raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. 

“Don’t get in my way. Don’t run away. Don’t turn your back on them.” 

“Wait, them? What?”

Those pieces of information were conflicting at best, and Jaskier had many more so called annoying questions to ask, but that’s when they heard the growls. And despite being a city boy, Jaskier had traveled enough to recognize wolves when he heard them. Lots of them. He was starting to regret having come.

Watching Geralt fight (from the security of a safe vantage point) was a thing of beauty that he wanted to immortalize through so many songs and poems. Hearing about his fights was somewhat okay as well, because he had enough mental images to picture the whole thing in his mind.

But being way too close to the epicenter of violence sort of took all the fun out of it. You can’t really think of a great line when you are worried about teeth plunging into your own flesh.

Geralt’s eyes were black and his face was pale and inhuman. He must have drank a potion at some point, and now he was waltzing from one growling beast to the other. But then Jaskier realized he wasn’t slashing and killing, but merely hitting the wolves reckless enough to attack with the flat of his broadsword.

He made an intricate sign with his left hand and cast a spell, invisible to Jaskier’s human eyes, but he felt the air sizzle and imagined its power. The wolves cried, tails now between their legs, and they looked more and more agitated, but less aggressive. 

“What–” Jaskier started.

“Hush,” Geralt cut him off.

He kept his eyes on the retreating wolves. The bard stepped closer to the witcher now that the pack was gone.

“Were they under a spell?” the bard tried again, but a “hmm” was his only answer. Typical.

The witcher had the face he made when he was listening to something only he could hear. Focused and tensed, ready to jump into action if need be. As hard as he tried, Jaskier couldn’t hear a thing. That’s when it dawned on him – the silence, the total absence of noise, was just wrong. It was like every creature in the forest had stopped moving, chirping, rustling. 

Jaskier suddenly felt like gripping Geralt’s shirt tight for protection, but the witcher had said not to get in his way, and he didn’t want it to be misinterpreted – thus ruining his chance of tagging along once more. So he gripped the little dagger instead, feeling very foolish.

“What is going on?” Jaskier asked.

“Be quiet,” Geralt replied, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the trees.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet,” Jaskier whispered back.

“You don’t have to say it, just be quiet.” 

Jaskier opened his mouth again, but he crossed Geralt’s black eyes and shut it closed. A normal person would have cowered in fear, just from the deep frequency of Geralt’s voice. To untrained ears, he sounded furious and annoyed, ready to knock him unconscious if he dared speak again.

Jaskier was afraid, yes, but not of Geralt, rather of what set the witcher off like that. Every single muscle of his body seemed ready to snap, and Jaskier still had no idea what was going on.

“Fuck,” Geralt spat.

Oh that was bad. A single ‘fuck’ was never a good sign. 

“More wolves?” Jaskier asked, eyes darting around.

Geralt didn’t say anything. He tightened his grip on the sword, and Jaskier could see his fingers flexing on the handle, knuckles nearly white. The absence of sound was so deafening now that it was impossible to mishear what the witcher uttered through clenched teeth.

“Run.”

And yet Jaskier felt the need to argue, pointing out the conflicting orders and asking where and why and– 

“Run!” Geralt repeated. He gripped the collar of his doublet and swung him forward with all his might.

Jaskier’s legs reacted before his brain did, and he started sprinting, jumping above roots straight ahead. A hissing sound and a low growl in his back forced him to look over his shoulder, but all he could see was Geralt following him closely. And he might have felt relieved that he wasn’t going to get lost in the dark woods and that Geralt was coming with him; he might have slowed down a bit and let his guard down. 

Next thing he knew, he was thrown against a tree, scratching his face against the rough bark and wondering what went wrong. The hand on his collar was back, turning him around, shaking him. He opened his mouth to protest against the rough treatment, but got punched in the jaw instead. It was a glancing blow, and the witcher was obviously holding back, but it still smarted. 

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, looking into Geralt’s eyes and finding only hatred and confusion in the dark pits.

Oh that was so not good. The Leshen’s handiwork most certainly, and it didn’t bode well for him. He twisted in the powerful grip and managed to wiggle out of his doublet, falling on all fours and grappling back to his feet before Geralt could grab him again.

Run, Geralt had said, so that is what he was going to do. Only problem was that he may have good lungs thanks to his singer’s experience but he didn’t have the witcher’s stamina. The night was falling and he couldn’t see where he was stepping anymore. What was bound to happen happened, a branch broke under his weight and he fell forward. He tried to break his fall with his hands and felt something give in his wrist when he hit the ground.

Confused thoughts bubbled through his head as the pain wracked his mind and everything became white – how he was glad he hadn’t brought the lute, and sad he wouldn’t be able to play for a while. Of course he wouldn’t play anymore if he died, so he got to his feet, stifled a groan of pain and tucked his hand into his shirt.

He was half surprised Geralt hadn’t caught up with him while he was down, and even more surprised to find him kneeling a few paces away, eyes closed, untied hair sticking to his face. Jaskier sneaked closer, taking in the bloodied sword on the grass in front of the witcher and the lines of pain etched on his sweaty face. He was whispering something, like a mantra under his breath.

“Fighting back, I see,” a voice said. It sounded surprised and appreciative somehow.

“Come out now,” it said again, to Jaskier this time.

He stepped out of the protection of the trees, more out of curiosity than anything. He tried to catch his breath, careful not to jostle his hand.

“I’m harder to control than a pack of wolves,” Geralt said, without opening his eyes.

His voice seemed calm, but Jaskier could hear the underlying strain. Now that he was closer, he could see that he had carved thin, parallel lines into his forearm, probably to use either blood or pain in order to fight back. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel pride bubble in his chest, replacing the nameless fear that had gripped him earlier.

Then the Leshen appeared through the trees, and all the fear came back. The creature was terrifying – it was humanoid, but the proportions were wrong, twisted legs, long, sinewy arms that seemed made of tree bark, and fingers that looked way too sharp. Its face was hidden behind a stag skull, and a pair of gigantic antlers adorned it. But in the back of his head, Jaskier was already trying to figure out ways to convey the sheer amazement he also felt when he saw it.

“You’re trespassing, humans,” it said in a deep voice, almost mocking.

“Not human,” the witcher said, briefly opening his yellow eyes.

“Very human, very sorry,” Jaskier babbled from where he stood. “Please don’t kill us?” 

“You’re the ones killing,” the Leshen accused.

“You did set Geralt on me, that was not really nice,” Jaskier pointed out with a scowl.

 _Don’t antagonize the woodland creature with magical powers_ , he could hear Geralt say in his head. But his wrist throbbed something fierce, he was tired and his feet hurt. It made him cranky.

“Townsfolk are worried,” Geralt said. “Cattle missing, slaughtered sheep.” 

“And so you decided to come and kill me? I have ruled those woods for eons. I shall still be there long after all the humans disappeared.”

The Leshen sounded indignant, and Jaskier could have sworn he saw eyes flashing red under the skull, when the creature turned its head. It paced around Geralt, not getting any closer thankfully. 

“I came here to talk.” 

“I see,” the Leshen said. It whipped its head to stare at Jaskier. “And you brought your poet because…”

The bard coughed and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Geralt beat him to it. 

“I don’t think you’re killing the cattle.”

“Of course not.” 

The conversation was taking a weird turn, and Jaskier hoped they’ll find an agreement soon, because the puny human poet was starting to feel a bit cold and lightheaded. His doublet laid abandoned somewhere behind them, and his wrist was definitively fractured. He missed his lute already.

“Release me from the spell, and I’ll tell the town I killed you.”

“How?” The Leshen seemed intrigued now. Tension was ebbing from Geralt’s shoulders, and his hands were slack in front of him, the lines no longer bleeding.

“By bringing them bloody antlers,” Geralt simply stated. “And then I’ll come back to threaten the bandits living on the edge of the forest,” he added.

“Leave that to me,” the Leshen said.

And with that it turned around and strode away, disappearing through the trees.

Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Geralt pushed his hair back and rose to his feet. He wiped his sword on his thigh and sheathed it. No more threats then.

They made their way back to the path in relative silence. Jaskier wasn’t cold anymore – walking at a pace fast enough to keep up with the witcher had helped – but he hadn’t dared look at his wrist yet. He supposed getting mind controlled must have taken a toll on the witcher, but he was a bit miffed he hadn’t checked on him or even asked how he felt. 

“What, no triumphant ballad about me murdering half of the forest dwellers this time?” Geralt teased. 

“You didn’t murder anything,” Jaskier muttered. He kept his eyes on the path, careful not to trip again.

“That didn’t stop you last time with the elves.”

“I’m just not in the mood,” he replied very tiredly.

And if Geralt found his silence unnerving, he didn’t comment on it again until they reached the edge of the woods. 

Lying against a tree, as if waiting for them, was a pair of antlers, a bit smaller than the Leshen’s, but still impressive enough. And, hanging from one of the branches, was Jaskier’s doublet, dirty but intact. 

“Do you think he sheds his antlers once a year like stags?” Jaskier asked, as he went to retrieve his jacket. “Does he keep them all?”

He turned around to face Geralt, who was sighing and looking like he couldn’t care less. He took his injured hand out of his shirt to see if he could maneuver it back into the jacket sleeve. Talking and taking his eyes off the path turned out not to be the best move, because he tripped again, careening forward to try and find his footing.

Geralt did the most logical thing. He took a step forward and gripped his arms tight to keep him upright. The worst possible move, that was. Jaskier screamed and tried to wrench his hand out of his grasp. Geralt didn’t let go, and Jaskier blacked out from the pain. 

*

“Slings make me look hot,” Jaskier remarked out of the blue. “Well hotter than usual.”

He wasn’t bragging, he was simply stating a fact – and maybe he was a tiny bit drunk and high on pain potions. People kept wanting to hear what happened, and Jaskier was basking in the attention. His wrist was now splinted and swaddled in bandages, carefully tucked in a sling.

“Do you want me to tell them how you really got injured?” Geralt interjected. He had that tired look that meant it was best to shut up now. “All you did was trip over your own feet.”

“Because a brutish witcher was hunting me down through scary woods,” Jaskier corrected.

“I was under a spell,” Geralt protested. “I could have hurt you way worse.” 

“It is not making me feel any better,” Jaskier said with a wry smile, before adding, “And then you hurt me some more.”

“Accidentally,” Geralt retorted with a sigh. He had apologized over and over but he probably knew he was never going to hear the end of it. And yet he still tried to get in the last word.

“At least one good thing came out of that adventure.”

“Pray tell?” Jaskier asked, because he didn’t really see it. Knowing the witcher got paid for a hunt that never really happened felt wrong somehow, not exciting enough. 

“You won’t be playing the lute for a while,” Geralt said with a glimpse of a wicked smile.

“Oh, I can always sing,” he assured – even though his Leshen song was hardly coming by.

“You’ll be asleep in a minute,” Geralt assured. He looked smug and so sure of himself all of a sudden.

“What? I feel fine,” Jaskier claimed.

But to be fair he did feel run down and aching, deep down in his bones, even the unbroken ones. The room started to sway slightly around them, and it dawned on him – the potion. 

“You drugged me?” Jaskier tried to sound indignant, but really he was relieved he wasn’t going to have to walk out of the tavern and all the way to their room, wherever it was.

“You need rest,” he heard, and he tried to fight the pull of sleep, but it was no use.

That was probably the best apology he could hope for anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from Jaskier's point of view was fun. Let me know what you thought?


	3. Attack

Having Jaskier with him on hunts was weird. At one point, Geralt did feel like he had some say in it, but it quickly passed. No matter how hostile or indifferent he was – pretended to be – with Jaskier, the bard always found a way to come back.

And Jaskier wasn’t really a liability, as one might think; Geralt appreciated his companionship, even if he tried to deny it. Jaskier did have some intelligent ideas and comments sometimes, floating among the flow of rhymes and weird quips he kept spewing. In a sense, it was nice to hear another point of view after so many years on his own.

The bard might have looked dainty, but Geralt quickly learned that he was used to roughing it up. Sleeping outside was fine as long as it was not raining – _it damages the instrument, you can’t submit such a fine_ _ly crafted object_ _to the hazards of nature!_ Skipping meals was never a big deal, because Jaskier always seemed to be able to produce stale food out of mysterious pockets – _one can never know when some bread will come in handy…_

So, all things considered, Geralt concluded that Jaskier was a resourceful idiot and he could probably take care of himself most of the time. Of course he wouldn’t trust him with a kikimora or anything of the sort, but it helped ease that part of his mind that didn’t like being responsible for another being. He might have overlooked evidence that a witcher’s life was too dangerous for a bard, but nobody said he was perfect.

And so, one mild evening, they stopped for the night and set up camp in a clearing away from the dusty road. The actual setting up is a shared task, but Geralt was always the one hunting some game or fetching water, since that regrettable incident when Jaskier got so distracted he got lost. Now he was to stay in the camp, unpack, build a fire and tune his lute or whatever, while Roach kept an eye on him.

Maybe Geralt was tired, or maybe he got too confident in their little routine, because despite having a pretty sharp ear, he totally failed to notice anything strange while he hunted. He came back to an empty camp, a smoldering fire, and no horse or bard in sight. He nearly dropped the sheepskin flasks as a vague sense of déjà vu washed over him, making him feel queasy and sad. It was bound to happen, some part of him whispered, as everybody left around him. But signs of struggle were unmistakable, and he selfishly felt better because he knew Jaskier hadn’t just left. 

He had no trouble finding in which direction they went, as he could see at least four different sets of footprints. Deep grooves left by a spooked Roach disappeared in the opposite direction, and Geralt trusted her to find him once danger had passed. So he sighed, left the hare he had just caught next to the dying fire, and started tracking his bags and his bard instead.

After a few minutes of silently following the trail, it became clear that Jaskier hadn’t been kidnapped as he originally feared, but that he was also following whoever robbed them from a distance. It made little sense, and Geralt wasn’t going to dare guess what went through his head when he took that decision, but there was no mistaking the bard’s lighter footing. His prints were careful and sneaky – a rare feat for the bumbling musician.

The trees were denser there, and night was falling fast, which was an advantage. He could hear the river flowing a little farther and figured they must have set up camp along the water. Then he heard voices, mocking and rude; his hand curled around the hilt of his sword as he approached.

“Give it back,” Jaskier repeated through his teeth, his voice strained. 

“What will you do? Sing us to death?” one of the bandits mocked.

He threw the lute case over Jaskier’s head, and his friend caught it effortlessly, cackling. Jaskier turned towards him, his face set, an arm looped around his midriff. From where he was, Geralt could see dried blood on his face, but he looked too furious to be severely injured.

The witcher narrowed his eyes, taking in what was going on in the bandits’ camp while he stayed hidden. One man was rifling through his stolen bags, while the other two surrounded Jaskier, who was stomping his foot and demanding his lute back. Trust the nice poet to become enraged when his musical instrument was threatened.

“Did you really think you could take us on?” the bandit teased again.

“Such a pretty thing like you,” the other one continued, “you’re not made for fighting.” 

“Yeah, that’s probably _not_ why the tall guy keeps him around.” 

The lewd comment and the laughter that followed made Jaskier see red, and that was actually an interesting sight. He was fuming, hurling colorful insults, while jumping and trying to catch his lute – as if it would solve anything.

“Don’t you ever shut up? God, I don’t see how anyone could stand that.”

“He must be a good lay.”

More cackling. Geralt sighed, taking it as his cue to come to Jaskier’s rescue. He was about to step forward when the bard took a swing at the tallest bandit – the one currently holding his lute. Unexpectedly, his posture was adequate enough, and his fist flew into the man’s adam’s apple. It wasn’t a nice punch, but it was effective, and the man dropped to his knees with a strangled croak.

“I am not useless,” Jaskier groaned, shaking his hand. “And I’ll say it again, you–” 

But they would never hear what he was about to say, because next thing he knew, he was put in a headlock from behind, sputtering and scratching at the arm that had snuck around his neck. Geralt had had enough, and he drew his sword, marching forward to retrieve what was his.

“Well look who’s come for you!” the third bandit mocked.

He was probably too stupid to read the situation correctly, considering one of his friends was still coughing on the floor and the other one was going to lose his head very soon if he didn’t let go of his hostage.

But if seeing Jaskier deck a mountain of a man wasn’t amazing enough, Geralt watched the smaller man twist and turn in the bandit’s grip, until he managed to get low enough to bite the arm holding him – hard. Surprise and pain made his assailant take a step back, and Jaskier punched him in the family jewels. Who knew the bard was such a dirty fighter, Geralt thought, as the situation was becoming more and more fascinating as it unfolded.

Geralt hit the one still choking with the flat of his sword when he looked like he wanted the join the fray, and the third one raised his hands and blinked stupidly, keeping his eyes on Jaskier as if he decided he was the biggest threat. 

And maybe he was, because they stuttered apologies and promises while Jaskier kept telling Geralt to kill them all. Adrenaline must have gone to his head or something. Geralt gathered their bags and the bandits’ weapons, while a dejected Jaskier shouldered the strap of his lute case. 

“No more blood,” the witcher said. “But there will be if I ever see you again.” 

Going back to their own – still not set – camp took some time, as Jaskier kept stumbling in the dark. Roach was waiting for them, stomping and flicking his tail in the dark, visibly annoyed about the set back. 

“So, what was that about?” Geralt finally asked, because he was too curious to let it slide.

“I wasn’t going to let them run away with your things,” Jaskier shrugged. “Like last time,” he added lamely.

He winced and seemed to decide he probably shouldn’t remind Geralt of his past failures. He kept quiet after that, while they got the fire going, and Geralt skinned and gutted the wild game he had caught earlier.

“I didn’t know you could fight like that,” Geralt tried again, while the hare was roasting above the fire.

This time Jaskier didn’t even shrug, but he kept his eyes on the flames, his jaw set. He had wiped the blood from his mouth, but colorful bruises were starting to appear on his neck.

There was probably a story behind those abilities – something unbelievable and convoluted, like a former lover who happened to be an expert at martial arts, or someone who only accepted to be courted if Jaskier knew how to fight – and for once Geralt would have liked to hear it, if only to ease the awkward tension that had built up between them.

They ate in silence. Well Geralt ate, and Jaskier barely touched his food. Geralt guessed that the bandits’ mockeries must have got into his head, and he was now wallowing in self pity as he liked doing sometimes. It never lasted really long, but Geralt hated that – he made him feel responsible, and he didn’t like it. Jaskier was a grown man, albeit a weird one, and he shouldn’t need someone else’s validation so often.

“You know I don’t keep you around for...” Geralt trailed off, not knowing how to formulate his thought.

He was expecting the flash of a smile, maybe a joke or two. Instead, Jaskier remained uncannily silent, his eyes still fixed on the fire, an arm looped around his knees. Silent treatment it was then.

What transpired at the bandit camp had annoyed Geralt, but he was fine with not talking. His kind didn’t need much sleep, but he still settled down, thinking Jaskier could keep watch for a while. He wanted more responsibilities, he was going to get them. 

The fire died down, and Jaskier threw some twigs into it, until he stopped, and night engulfed them. Geralt kept an eye on him, out of habit more than anything, and he watched him slump forward, until he gave up and fell asleep all curled up.

Then morning came, and Jaskier failed to wake up. And Geralt felt some irrational relief that he was injured and not mad at him, as he got up and went to check on him – as he should have done hours before, a nagging voice reminded him in his head.

He rolled Jaskier until he was flat on his back. He was unconscious, his face pale and sweaty. Geralt started patting his flanks, still keeping a safe distance as he didn’t want Jaskier to take a swing at him if he was to wake up and panic.

He couldn’t feel any breaks or deformities, there was no blood on his clothes, but when he carefully lifted his shirt, he whistled as it revealed a purplish bruise encompassing most of his lower abdomen. What happened before Geralt caught up with Jaskier and the bandits must have been nasty.

Internal bleeding was tricky, and Geralt hoped he hadn’t ruptured any vital organ. He also kept telling himself he should have pushed and checked for injuries hours before, all the while wondering how the smaller man lasted that long before passing out. He put salve on the bruise and made him drink one of the unbroken vials from his retrieved bags, propping him up against the saddle. 

Jaskier woke up annoyed by the attention and tried to downplay his injuries. 

“We have to set up rules or something”, Geralt warned. “Pain is not acceptable.”

“It doesn’t bother you,” Jaskier remarked.

“I do feel pain,” Geralt explained. “But I’m not human.”

Jaskier winced as he tried to sit up straighter and it pulled at whatever was hurt inside. His knuckles were split, his jaw puffy and his neck bruised, but he still pretending he was alright, and Geralt couldn’t understand why. It was not as if he was going to leave him behind.

“I’m not a delicate flower,” he muttered.

“Fragile doesn’t mean weak,” Geralt reasoned.

Humans were fragile, and complicated. Jaskier made a face and still said nothing.

“Potions are replaceable,” Geralt continued, in a calm voice. “It would have taken time, but it’s not the end of the world. My bags weren’t worth your life.”

“First off, I didn’t die,” Jaskier pointed out. “And my lute is pretty unique though,” Jaskier argued, just to annoy him, and Geralt felt relieved by it.

“That piece of wood is useless without you,” Geralt remarked very seriously.

That actually shut Jaskier up for a while, but also, maybe, brought them to an understanding of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be called "Hypothermia" and will feature, as you can imagine, some platonic cuddling - for warmth.


	4. Hypothermia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Geralt is getting better at picking up clues that Jaskier needs help, I'd say there is still room for improvement.

They were going to part ways for the winter very soon, the witcher could sense it. The air was getting more and more frigid, and Jaskier was crankier than ever. The bard would probably have followed him a little longer, if he headed south, but there were too many rumors of increased Nilfgaardian activity and Geralt didn’t want to risk it.

Hunts had been rare the last few days – even the weird creatures pacing in the dark seemed to be retreating for the winter – but taverns were packed and Jaskier’s songs were more popular than ever. All in all, they managed to always get a decent room and a hot bath wherever they went.

It wasn’t snowing, but the dirt was frozen and hard. Sleeping outside was out of the question, and as a result, they were traveling hastily to get to the next town before night. Geralt was happy with their pace, and he was confident they’d reach civilization – or something approaching – before the snowstorm hit. He didn’t talk about it, but he could sense it in those dark clouds gathering in the west.

Jaskier was walking ahead, singing something nonsensical about frozen toes and a pretty rose. He wasn’t playing the lute though, and he kept his hands inside his wool cloak. Geralt nearly stopped him to check if his toes were, indeed, frozen, because he was wearing fancy leather boots that were bound to get cold. But Jaskier seemed happy enough and he didn’t want to slow down if they didn’t need to.

Roach was walking behind, not minding the cold because she knew a warm barn and hay was waiting for her not too far away. But then she suddenly skidded to a stop in the middle of the narrow path, pricking her ears. Geralt gave her a small nudge with his heels, but she snorted and refused to move forward.

It raised an alarm in his head but he was too slow to react, and before he could warn him, he watched Jaskier pitched forward with a yelp. The dead leaves on the ground hid a sheet of ice, too thin to bear the bard’s weight, and it shattered when he stepped on it. Geralt barely managed to grab the hem of his cloak and prevent him from taking an unwanted swim in the frozen pond, but he still ended up knee deep in frigid water. Roach neighed softly, as if to comment on their shenanigans.

Shock stole Jaskier’s voice for all but three seconds, and then he started cursing. He batted Geralt’s hand away and took stock of his predicament on the edge of the pond. Thankfully the lute was dry and intact, or Geralt wasn’t sure he would have lived it down. Ruined shoes and pants were not a concern – no matter what Jaskier repeated – but deciding on what to do next was. 

“We can’t stop,” Geralt said, looking at the looming clouds.

“So you’re suggesting I keep walking with waterlogged boots in this weather and lose all my toes?” 

Jaskier sounded indignant. He had taken his shoes off and was wringing his socks. They could have stopped and made a fire, Geralt thought. They could have waited a bit for Jaskier to be drier until they continued. But the proximity of the storm was cause for alarm. He told Jaskier as much, and only got a shrug as an answer, as if to say, “If you say we walk, let’s walk.”

That didn’t stop the bard from complaining some more, and Geralt did his best not to let it get on his nerves. _As long as he’s complaining, he’s fine. It’s when he gets silent that you should worry_ , he repeated in his head. Along with a small, _Don’t strangle him to shut him up_ , for good measure.

Geralt rummaged through his saddle bags and took out a warm coat made of wolf hides grateful villagers gave him a while back. He showed it to Jaskier, who made a face. Not fashionable enough, apparently. 

“Honestly, Geralt, I’d rather freeze to death than be found wearing that flea-infested piece of–” 

“Put the damn coat on,” Geralt growled, walking closer. 

Any other person would have been fear-stricken, but Jaskier merely rolled his eyes and said, “Alright, alright.”

He lifted his arms and let Geralt help him put it on. His skin was cold, but he still looked lucid enough, and annoyed enough. Geralt just hoped they could reach the town before the storm hit.

“Don’t you want to get on Roach?” he asked at one point, as dusk was making it harder to see the path. 

“Nah, I need to keep moving, keeps me warm,” Jaskier said, but his voice was strained and he was hunched forward. The wind was picking up, and even Geralt could sense how cold it was getting.

“I can hear your teeth clattering from over here,” the witcher remarked. 

“What, you don’t like my new musical experiment?” Jaskier said without raising his head. But the snarky comment lacked its usual bite – how ironic.

“You know where we are going, right?” he added, sounding mocking rather than truly concerned. “I mean, maybe we should let Roach lead the way…”

“It’s not far, but…” Geralt trailed, not sure if he should tell what was on his mind.

He wondered what was the best motivation: the false hope that help was just a few paces away, or the certainty of death if they didn’t reach a town in time. 

“What?”

Jaskier was having none of it apparently, and he was looking at him from under the hood of his fashionable cloak. He looked paler now, but still very pissed off.

“A blizzard is coming,” Geralt sighed.

“Yeah, you said it earlier, that’s why you said no to the fire that could have saved me. At least make sure you give my lute to someone worthy of it once I’m dead,” Jaskier rambled, with his usual flair for exaggeration.

“You’re not going to die,” Geralt assured, with a certainty he hoped sounded reassuring. “But we are going to stop,” he added.

“What, wait?” Jaskier sputtered. “But you said–”

“That we could beat the storm, but I was wrong.” 

If he had been alone, he would have continued, but he feared for Roach and Jaskier – not specifically in that order. Finding a place to wait out the storm seemed like the best course of action. Jaskier shrugged and trudged along as they went back on their tracks, then uphill on the mountain flank. They needed to find a cave deep enough to block the strongest winds and allow them to make a fire.

The wind was biting now, and snow had started falling at last, heavy and wet. Jaskier had stopped talking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, not even raising his head to acknowledge their progress. That’s when Geralt spotted it. A narrow entrance, and a deep dark cave behind it, perfect for them. He pushed a stumbling Jaskier in the right direction and made sure Roach could get in easily.

“Yes, Jaskier, I’m sure there are no monsters in that cave,” Geralt said in a slight sarcastic tone, trying to lighten the mood.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jaskier remarked from where he sat, huddled and trembling.

“You should have. You would have if you were in your right mind.” 

“I’m–” 

“No, you’re not fine,” Geralt cut him off, serious now.

“I was going to say cold,” Jaskier lied, teeth grating painfully. 

“Of course you were.” 

Geralt went back out to gather wood to start a fire – the wet branches were bound to make a lot of smoke, but it was still better than freezing. He worked quickly, feeling the air get colder yet again, as the winds were howling outside.

A very selfish, animalistic part of himself wanted his wolf coat back, but he couldn’t push the clanking sound of Jaskier’s teeth out of his mind. Once he was satisfied with the fire, he turned to the bard, who was hugging his lute and looking at the flames with unseeing eyes.

“Take your clothes off,” Geralt said matter of factly. 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

And so Jaskier complied wordlessly. He tried to peel off the still wet and now partially frozen garments, and Geralt knelt down to help him because it was taking forever. Working with icy cold hands must not have been an easy task, Geralt thought, trying not to worry, but worrying nevertheless.

“Am… Am I going to lose my fingers?” Jaskier asked shakily, and what little color was left in his face vanished.

“Not if I can help it,” Geralt promptly reassured.

He ran his hands on the too cold limbs, making sure they were dry enough. He felt like he was being rough, but he told himself it was necessary.

“No sleeping,” he warned, when he saw Jaskier’s eyes slip close, shaking him a little.

Jaskier mumbled something about not letting him steal his virtue, but it made little sense considering the number of people he bedded on a regular basis. To Geralt, the whole thing didn’t feel intimate anyway. It was a means to an end, he reminded himself, as he slipped off his own clothes, keeping his undergarments and his thankfully still dry socks.

He scooted closer to Jaskier and to the fire, getting his strong arms and thighs around the bard, and closing the wolf coat around them. The outside fur was damp from melting snow, but the inside of the skins was warm, insulating them both against the full blown blizzard outside. Roach neighed slightly, and Geralt threw her a look, as if to say, “Not a word.” 

They stayed like that a long time, long enough for the night to fall, and the storm to pack snow at the entrance of the cave. Jaskier’s head lolled on his chest, as he was either unconscious or asleep. He was still way too cold and unresponsive, but Geralt was confident he’d be okay. The cave had warmed up a bit, and he had gathered enough wood to last a little while longer. 

He left Jaskier on his own long enough to unpack the few dry clothes he had – a spare shirt, short breeches – and to unsaddle Roach, who settled in a corner. It was going to be a long night, he thought, sitting behind Jaskier again, trying to share as much heat as he could. Witchers were war machines enhanced in order to resist anything, so he might as well put it to good use.

Jaskier woke up panicking and nearly elbowed him in the groin. It was to be expected, but it still came as a shock.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered.

He tried to hold him down but it made matters worse. That first blow might have been accidental, but Jaskier was thrashing about now, trying to break free from the limbs holding him.

“Stop squirming or I’m throwing your naked ass back into the storm.”

It got Jaskier’s attention, because he stilled, breathing hard and twitching.

“Don’t move, it’s fine,” Geralt repeated, giving him time to piece everything together, but not letting him go either.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jaskier said, and Geralt let out a breath of relief. 

The y  didn’t move for a while, except for Jaskier who was fidgeting with his totally functional and not frozen at all fingers. He was probably feeling self conscious and awkward, Geralt thought. His cloak and pants were surely dry by now. Maybe not the boots, but they could stay in the cave a little longer anyway.

“Humans were not made for such temperatures,” Geralt remarked, thinking out loud.

“And you’re discovering it just now?” Jaskier sounded indignant. “Are you going to blame me for not enduring the weather as well as a witcher? Well next time tell your horse to give me a little more of a head’s up…”

“We wouldn’t have beaten the storm anyway,” Geralt assured, trying to stop the flow of words.

“But maybe I would have kept my dignity intact.”

“There is nothing undignified. We are sharing body heat.”

He shrugged, and the wolf coat slipped. Jaskier groaned and scooted closer.

“You _are_ very warm,” Jaskier confirmed, his tone mocking yet appreciative somehow.

“Next time I’ll wait for you in Dol Blathanna or something,” he added, just to get the last word.

Geralt hmm-ed his approval, knowing pretty well bad weather would never stop his foolish bard anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was fun to write!  
> Next part will have some hurt!Geralt and BAMF!Jaskier because why not.


	5. Potions

The witcher collapsed, and it was truly a mighty sight, like watching a tree fall in the forest or witnessing a landslide. He was a force of nature, suddenly broken and unresponsive. Jaskier felt as if all the blood was drained from his face as he watched him lay there and not get up. He always got up.

He tried to get closer to assess the damage, despite the danger still looming above them. A huge flying lizard, an ugly dragon the color of mud, with sharp claws and way too many teeth. It was not what Geralt was expecting to find up that mountain, and he was apparently no match for it.

From up close, it didn’t look good at all; the black armor of the witcher was torn in places, and Jaskier could see the blood seeping from deep gouges on his chest. Dragon claws would do that. Stupid Geralt, getting in front of him like he needed protection – well he did, but he wasn’t expecting the blow to kill him.

Angry tears were running down his face, and before he even realized what he was doing, he started shouting at the beast hovering above them. The flying lizard blinked and huffed, flapping its leathery wings, ready to strike again. Jaskier even moved in front of the still body of Geralt, gesturing wildly, which was probably beyond stupid but at this point he wasn’t thinking straight anymore.

And maybe dragons understood human languages, or maybe the sight of a crazy bard wearing a bright green outfit matted with blood, screaming and brandishing a lute as his only weapon was enough to startle it. The green bottle that exploded in its face after Jaskier threw it might have helped a bit too. It flew away, retreating to its lair, leaving them all alone on the rocky side of the mountain. Most probably waiting for things to calm down so that it could come back and pick up Geralt for a snack.

Jaskier turned around, trying to find the witcher’s swords. His eyes were blurry, and he wiped snot on his sleeve, not caring anymore about appearances. He gathered the weapons, soiled with monster’s blood, and brought them back to Geralt’s side. He collapsed on his knees next to him, too dazed and scared to even cry anymore.

Until he saw it. His bloodied and torn chest, moving ever so slightly.

_6 hours earlier_

“Of course I want to come!” Jaskier excitedly said, raising his head from the scribbles on his page.

“It will be dangerous,” Geralt scowled.

“But when is it not?” Jaskier remarked with a twirl of his quill in the air.

“You don’t have to come along every time,” Geralt tried again.

“It’s like you don’t want me around…” Jaskier pouted, knowing pretty well the witcher would reluctantly agree anyway.

“You’re certainly not needed.”

“Oof, that hurt,” Jaskier mocked, pretending to be struck in the heart.

And so they packed and went monster-hunting on the steep hillsides of a mountain whose name was not going to be used in a song since it was absolutely impossible to pronounce. Locals said it meant “the growling stones”, and that was precisely what they were looking for – _something_ growling at the top of the mountain, scaring cattle into ravines and terrifying whole villages.

“Tell me again why you left Roach in town?” Jaskier sighed for the thousandth time – at least.

“Explain why you chose to wear the gaudiest color ever created?” Geralt answered with the same tone.

“You’re mean today,” Jaskier grumbled.

“And you’re way too loud.”

“What, did you hear something coming?” Jaskier looked around, clutching his lute, suddenly more aware of his surroundings.

“I couldn’t have heard anything, even if I wanted to,” Geralt sighed and carried on at the same slightly too fast pace.

People usually didn’t understand what was exciting about the witcher’s life and why he followed him, but Jaskier knew it was an acquired taste. Right now, his calves hurt, his feet hurt, and his nice lime green outfit – a totally fashionable color, mind you – kept getting caught in thorny bushes. But the call of the unknown and the uncertainty of the fight to come was pulling him like a siren’s song.

That’s when they heard the first scream. A gut wrenching sound that came from higher up on the mountain, in a cave most probably, with the way it was echoing. The witcher swore under his breath and said something about untruthful villagers. Apparently, they hadn’t described the sounds correctly, and Geralt never liked when people wrongly identified monsters. It always made his job harder.

“Geralt… are you sure it’s safe?” Jaskier asked in a small voice, as they kept moving toward the sound.

“No,” Geralt said, helpful as always.

“No you’re not sure or no it’s not–”

“ _Shut up Jaskier_.”

The beast attacked from the sky, taking them both by surprise. It swooped down and dug its claws into Jaskier’s shoulder before any of them could react. The bard didn’t even have time to utter a word, because next thing he knew, he was lifted from the ground as the monster snatched him away. When he came to his senses, he started to flail, weak nails scratching the unyielding leathery skin.

_What was even that thing_ , Jaskier thought, outraged and panicked, _the ugliest dragon ever_? It snapped its gnarly teeth and howled again, as if to answer him. Jaskier wriggled and pulled, feeling something give and hoping it was expensive cloth and not skin. His left shoulder was on fire and he prayed Geralt had a potion for whatever poison was no doubt coursing in his veins by now.

He craned his neck and tried to see Geralt; he looked furious and he was screaming something he couldn’t quite make out.

“Do something!” Jaskier yelled, struggling some more.

And Geralt did, releasing a wave of energy that went over his head and hit the flying beast straight on. It looked confused for a second and opened its claws. Jaskier fell. The ground rose way too fast, not at all in slow motion like in the stories.

He hit the rocks and rolled. He screamed when it jolted his shoulder and twisted his ankle. Then he stopped moving and lay there, breathing hard through his teeth and hoping Geralt had the situation under control because he was not getting up anytime soon.

Geralt, who caught up with him downhill, threw him his bag with a yell of, “Blue potion!”, and didn’t even stop to check on him. _Typical_.

Jaskier got his shaky hands on the potion, uncorked the vial and hesitated for a second, wondering if he was supposed to drink it or pour it on his wound. But instinct took over, as the beast’s growling and the clanking of the witcher’s swords grew closer, and he did both, like he had seen Geralt do before on himself. He just hoped it wouldn’t kill a human, as it burned and sizzled inside and out, making his eyes water and his heart beat too fast.

He was trying to get to his feet when he heard Geralt say, “Oh no you don’t!” and he was pushed back to the ground. The beast dove again to try and snatch him, but this time the claws tore through Geralt’s chest instead.

_Present_

“Don’t panic, come on, don’t panic…” Jaskier repeated, while he was utterly panicking.

Geralt was hurt, badly, but he was alive – mostly, probably – and he was breathing – if you could call the raspy sounds coming from him breathing.

The bag with the potions was opened next to them, and Jaskier was trying to sort through all the mysterious herbs and vials, trying to find anything that could help, but he didn’t know what any of those did.

“Why didn’t you include some instructions?” Jaskier berated.

He couldn’t see another blue potion, but even if he did, he wasn’t sure it was what Geralt needed. Maybe he had started to carry potions designed specifically for foolish humans who got attacked by…

“What was that thing anyway?” Jaskier asked the unresponsive witcher. “Because it was ugly as hell, I’m not writing a song about that thing…”

Whatever was in the blue liquid must actually be working on him because he felt good, despite his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest. He checked his shoulder to find that it was still bleeding, but much more sluggishly. He realized he couldn’t feel his entire upper arm, which should have been worrying but for now was a relief. Maybe that was the true purpose of that potion – mask his pain, give him absolute confidence so that he wouldn’t die.

He tried to remove Geralt’s leather armor but it wouldn’t budge, and Jaskier understood with a strange feeling of horror that it was actually embedded into the skin in places, where the claws had pierced it.

“You know what,” he said, “it’s probably best to leave it anyway. It’s keeping pressure, which is good, I guess…”

That was a life threatening injury. He had no way to treat that on his own. He couldn’t leave Geralt to go get help. Not with the dragon-thing still around, waiting.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wake up now?” he tried. “Tell me nothing like that would have happened if I had stayed down in the village?”

It would have been comforting to hear anything from Geralt, even a dismissive grumble, instead of the gurgling sounds of a dying man. Jaskier looked around, feeling exposed and in danger.

_What would Geralt do?_ He thought.

He would have drank a potion of his, uttered a single “fuck”, flung Jaskier over his shoulder and run down the hill to find help. At least Jaskier had got that first part down. He wondered if he could lift Geralt – probably not, not with a shoulder that looked like minced meat and an ankle which throbbed just from standing upright.

_Be creative then_ , he told himself. _You’re not Geralt, think._

He ended up building a terrible looking stretcher out of dead wood and vines. It took him an hour, maybe more, and he really hoped it wouldn’t break halfway, as he rolled Geralt onto it. He loosely tied his torso so that he wouldn’t fall off, wincing at the rough treatment. He would have loved for Geralt to suddenly wake up and laugh at the whole idea.

He laid the bag, the swords and his lute across his legs, and tried to pull. He wasn’t expecting it to be so heavy, and nothing moved; some part of him briefly felt like falling to the ground, curling into a ball and crying until they were both dead. But that ending would have made a terrible song, so he swore and tried again, nearly shouting in victory when the makeshift stretcher actually moved. _Good thing they were going downhill._

“Bringing Roach would have solved a lot of my current problems, you know,” he told Geralt, even though he knew he should stop talking, save his breath and conserve his strength.

He felt weirdly full of energy, as he put one foot in front of the other, trying not to trip when the stretcher threatened to slip and hit him in the calves.

“Poor thing would have been spooked and you would have had two idiots to rescue on your hands,” he continued, not knowing if Geralt could hear him and frankly not caring.

Magic, or adrenaline, was coursing through his veins, making him light headed and skittish. The smallest sound made him look around, and he tried to pull harder and walk faster. His ankle was on fire now, feeling as if it was caught in a vice. Geralt remained deadly still and painfully silent.

“I mean, you’re not usually much of a talker, but it would be nice to hear a ‘hum’ or something,” Jaskier said, sparing the witcher a glance.

He looked pasty white, but his chest was still moving ever so slightly. Blood loss made people’s hearts beat faster, Jaskier thought, but Geralt wasn’t people. So maybe that was a good sign. Maybe he was sleeping it off, Jaskier foolishly hoped, as he kept going despite everything hurting more and more.

After a long and painful descent, he nearly wept when he could finally see the valley, and the village where help was waiting. He just needed to keep going, he owed him as much, he confusedly thought. Some lines about fallen comrades escaping a battlefield crossed his mind and he turned his head around to make sure his lute was still on the stretcher. Since Geralt wasn’t going to get paid for this fiasco, Jaskier was probably going to have to write some pretty good songs instead.

When he reached the cobblestones of the main street and the stretcher slid more easily, he tried to call for help, anyone, but all the doors closed as they passed them. He could see people watching, hidden behind curtains and shutters, and they all looked terrified. He let go of the vines he used as rope and screamed, “Help him, dammit, what are you waiting for?”

And then it dawned on him. They were not afraid of Geralt, who looked dead. They were scared of him, a small bard covered in blood, disheveled and shouting in the middle of the street. His ankle gave and he fell down. He sat there, put his head in his hands and asked again, quietly this time, “Just help him.”

That seemed to do the trick, and two men came out, looking at him like Jaskier might attack. They lifted the witcher between them, hopefully to bring him to a healer. Nobody tried to help Jaskier stand up. He hobbled along, but not before snatching their belongings.

_Hours later_

“I’m going to murder those villagers,” was the first thing Geralt mumbled when he finally woke up.

“Well, hello to you too?” Jaskier said with a small laugh. “You know I worked hard to change the image people had of you, right?”

“It was no mountain troll like they said. Damn wyvern,” Geralt continued to mutter.

“Oh, not a dragon then?”

Jaskier looked at Geralt from where he sat, his leg elevated on the bed, still wearing his disgusting bloody clothes. Now that Geralt was awake and not actively dying anymore, he should have felt better, but it wasn’t the case. He was still on edge, as if the danger hadn’t passed. _Damn potion._

Geralt reached a hand to touch Jaskier’s shoulder, but the bard moved back and tried to stand up.

“I’ll get the healer, tell him you’re awake,” he quickly said.

“Sit down.” It wasn’t really an order, more like an exasperated sigh.

“I can’t. The potion…” Jaskier tried to explain.

“… only protected you from the poison. You’re still bleeding and you need help,” Geralt said, deadpan.

“I’m not invincible?” Jaskier asked in a tiny voice.

“I hope not, or I fear for your rivals.”

“A bard with unlimited powers…” Jaskier said with a dreamy face.

“Scary, I know. Come here, bring me my bag.”

Jaskier gingerly put the witcher’s bag next to him and sat on the edge of the bed. Geralt rummaged through it, getting everything he needed to stitch Jaskier’s shoulder, he realized.

“Why didn’t you let the healer help you?” Geralt asked, and he sounded genuinely surprised.

“You needed him more than me,” Jaskier said, feeling sheepish.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Jaskier shrugged, or at least tried to, but the pain stopped him. He let the witcher strip him of his torn shirt, baring his mangled shoulder. He looked at it, made a face and focused on the white bandages circling Geralt’s chest instead.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, as the thread went under the skin, pulling, making him wince.

“Why?” Geralt didn’t look up from his needle work, but he sounded confused now.

“If I hadn’t come, none of that would have happened.”

“If you hadn’t come I would probably still be on that mountain, bleeding to death.”

“Oh.”

That did sound like a lie, but Jaskier didn’t try to argue. He knew the witcher was grateful for what he did, even though he wouldn’t express it in so many words.

Once his wound was stitched up, he settled back next to the bed and took out his lute, saying, “I have some songs to run by you.”

And he relished the way the witcher groaned, as if it was the most awful thing that happened that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah. Not sure about this one. I'm picturing Jaskier with his eyes flashing blue when he drinks the potion, suddenly feeling like he's invincible - only to discover that the strength was inside him the whole time... 
> 
> Next/last one will be more light-hearted.
> 
> Edit: oh, and I forgot, some part was inspired by [this pretty fanart.](https://heyitsmaat.tumblr.com/post/190881443515/geralt-are-you-sure-its-safe-no-no-youre)


	6. Curse (+1)

If Jaskier thought he was being discreet, he needed some training, because Geralt could hear him loud and clear, following in his footsteps down the old cemetery crypt. He didn’t say anything to stop him or let him know he acknowledged his presence, because the ghoul he was supposed to kill had left the place a while ago now, probably annoyed by the angry villagers’ attempts to dislodge it. There went his coin then…

He still explored further, because it was the kind of place where you could sometimes find interesting artifacts or potions, long forgotten. It was not looting, he reasoned, since the occupants of the place didn’t need it anymore.

He heard Jaskier trip in the dark behind him, swearing under his breath and the sound of glass breaking when he must have tried to grip onto something to stay upright. Geralt sighed.

“Are you okay?” he asked conversationally, scanning the obscurity behind him to locate the bard.

Silence. Then, “You’re not mad?”

“I can’t act surprised every time you don’t follow explicit orders… I’m not a damn troubadour.”

“Stop pulling my leg and help me, I can’t see in the dark, unlike some people.”

_And that’s why you shouldn’t be there_ , Geralt thought, but he strode to where Jaskier was kneeling and roughly dragged him to his feet by the scruff of his doublet.

He quickly looked him over, but the bard seemed fine, apart from a cut on his hand – he had probably put it down on one of the shards of glass crunching under their feet. A while ago, Geralt wouldn’t even have bothered to check him for injuries, but humans were so damn fragile and he always had to remind himself that even tripping in the dark could have dire consequences.

Jaskier wasn’t injury prone. He was merely living a dangerous life in a dangerous land, following a – supposedly – dangerous man. He was bound to get hurt, it was a matter of when, not if. But Geralt was getting better at noticing when something was wrong, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

They slowly returned to the stairs leading outside to the cemetery, where Roach was waiting, and where Jaskier was supposed to wait. The bard complained the whole way about the amount of cobwebs getting in his face, and how much his hand hurt. The small cut had stopped bleeding, but apparently it was enough to make him cranky.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait here?” was Geralt’s only answer to his litany of complaints once they got out.

“I know you’re pissed because you didn’t get to kill that damn creature, but it’s not a reason to take it out on me,” Jaskier whined, cradling his injured hand. He was often overreacting when his fingers were on the line, and Geralt understood the sentiment – he needed them to play.

And so, despite thinking it was a waste of time and resources, Geralt tended to the insignificant cut with salve and a bandage. Once Jaskier was satisfied that his hand wouldn’t “rot away and need to be amputated”, they made their way back to town.

The townsfolk who had asked Geralt to get rid of their unwanted ghoul begrudgingly accepted his explanation that it had left the crypt. They still asked him to stay a few days, to check that it wasn’t still there, lurking, howling at night.

“What’s it with strange creatures screaming?” Jaskier commented, as they settled in the tavern for another night.

“I guess we all get lonely sometimes,” Geralt said, without thinking.

“I thought you didn’t need anyone,” Jaskier remarked, picking at the thick bandage on his hand with a frown.

“Still bothering you?” Geralt asked with a nod, trying to change the subject.

“It’s throbbing,” Jaskier said. He gave a forlorn look to his lute, sitting next to him like a human companion.

“Leave it alone, it will pass,” Geralt assured.

Jaskier threw him a strange look, silently asking why he was being so nice, and Geralt had no answer to offer. But even if he couldn’t verbalize it, an evening without songs seemed glum and odd, like something was missing from it. The tavern was animated enough, and the ale was cheap yet good, but it just didn’t feel _right_.

They went back to the cemetery the next day, exploring some more, and Jaskier was back to his babbling self, his hand seemingly forgotten. Geralt didn’t ask, but he silently kept watch. He briefly wondered if that guard dog behavior was weird or not, and decided he didn’t give a damn anyway.

Back there most of the tombs were covered in moss and grass, some had fallen, others were broken. It was too quiet, no birds in the trees, only the wind, but Jaskier said it looked peaceful. Geralt thought it was macabre, but he didn’t argue. He could let the bard see beauty in death and decay if that made him happy.

They didn’t stumble onto animal carcasses or trampled ground; no signs of ghoulish activity anywhere. Maybe the villagers were imagining things at night, too scared to check if it was only the wind, mimicking a wounded animal, reminding them of dumb stories they told to scare children.

*

They left a few days later; by then, Jaskier’s hand looked fine, with only a small reddish scar on his palm. But he still didn’t pick up his lute, not that night, or the following nights in various inns.

“Does your hand still hurt?” Geralt asked out of the blue.

“Hm no, why?”

“You haven’t played in a while,” Geralt simply said.

“Why, Geralt, do you miss my music?” Jaskier asked with a playful smile.

“Hmm.”

Geralt didn’t like where that conversation was going and he was starting to regret he even asked. Jaskier continued eating for a while, obviously thinking the question over.

“I just…” he tried. “I guess I just don’t feel like it. I’m fine, really,” he reassured, and it left Geralt even more perplexed and worried.

When the bard wasn’t composing, he was making up with awkward flirting with nice people and convoluted tales of mostly made up hunts he was never a part of. Geralt couldn’t help but listen and smirk; all those people had no idea, but he did, and he liked the impossible twists and the exaggerated descriptions.

After that, Jaskier stopped telling tales altogether, and even though he still flirted a bit, he didn’t end up with anyone.

“You haven’t bedded any women in a while,” Geralt remarked one evening. Not that he was overly curious, but it was a change, and he didn’t like change.

“I’ll have you know that I bed men as well,” Jaskier replied, way too loudly and cheerfully.

Geralt made a face and looked at his tankard, silent again. He failed to see the tragedy unfold right under his nose, he failed to sense that something was wrong, lulled by a false sense of familiarity. _He would tell me if something was wrong_ , he had thought. Wishful thinking, that was.

But Jaskier kept acting strange, while pretending everything was peachy.

“Bard, play something jolly!” someone exclaimed in the tavern.

The gaudy clothes and lute case were hard to miss, and usually, Jaskier was happy to indulge, jumping and dancing around, composing silly rhymes on the spot or using old songs for the occasion, but this time he didn’t even look up from his meal.

Geralt silently nudged the bard, who looked at his hands as if they weren’t part of his body – alien appendages he didn’t know how to use anymore. He still took his lute out of its case and plucked a string, the note dissonant and wrong, even to Geralt’s untrained ears.

Patrons booed and quickly lost interest after that. That’s when Geralt’s medallion started shaking on its chain, ever so slightly.

*

It took a botched griffin hunt, and a visit to a local mage to patch up Geralt’s mangled thigh, for someone to finally realize what was wrong.

“One of you is cursed,” the mage said, not even looking up from Geralt’s wound. She had finished packing Geralt’s leg with herbs that burned even worse than the claws. “I’m surprised you didn’t sense it, witcher.”

Geralt immediately looked at Jaskier, because it was only logical. The bard managed to look scared and offended at the same time.

“Hold on, I feel–”

“Fine, yes, I know, that’s what you usually say before dramatically passing out,” Geralt spat out. Pain was making him short tempered.

“It happened twice, three times tops,” Jaskier said defensively.

“There is a dark aura coming from him,” the mage said, stepping closer. The flame of the candles lighting the room danced in her eyes and she looked crazed.

“Come on,” Jaskier protested. “I’m sure you’re making this up.” He raised his hands in front of him as if to protect himself from the curious woman. “She’s making it up, right?” he asked again, and he only looked scared now.

But Geralt couldn’t help but think about all that had felt wrong with him this past week. Just now, he noticed that the mage wore a long purple coat that looked quite expensive and would have made Jaskier’s eyes glisten with envy if he had been in his right mind. But he never commented on it, didn’t even look at it.

The mage grabbed Jaskier’s hand. He winced and tried to pull it back.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, worried.

“I’m–”

“If you say ‘fine’ one more time, I’ll hit you.”

It was an empty threat, but he still growled and made a fist. The mage raised her free hand, placating, but she didn’t let go of Jaskier’s. He bravely tried to smile and shrug, but there was no hiding it anymore.

The mage ran her finger over the small red scar in the palm of his hand. Jaskier blinked, opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when she locked eyes with him. Magic, Geralt thought, or just fear.

“It’s an ancient spell,” the mage said, frowning, as if she was studying it. “An abandonment curse, but a corrupt version of it.”

Geralt tried to stand up and failed, his leg still weak. He sat on the edge of the cot, ready to snatch Jaskier back if anything was to happen to him. The bard looked rooted in place, his eyes jumping from the mage’s face to his own hand.

“It makes one relinquish all earthly possessions, reject things they care about, things they once loved. Makes people easier to manipulate.”

She let go of Jaskier’s arm, and the bard shuddered and flexed his hand.

“Then why is he still following me?” Geralt asked from where he sat.

His voice was low and menacing, even if it wasn’t the mage’s fault. Normal people would have recoiled, but Jaskier scooted closer, unfazed as always.

The mage looked at them with a questioning look.

“He should have left me,” he continued, anger and disbelief clear in his voice. “Unless…”

“Are you jealous of a curse?” Jaskier scoffed, half laughing, but he stopped when he saw the witcher’s somber expression.

“Things you care about – things you love…” Geralt repeated. “It makes no sense,” he continued, thinking, voicing all the concerns that had plagued him for a week now.

“What do you want me to say?” Jaskier asked. “My love for you is stronger than old magic?”

“Don’t take old magic lightly, little bard,” the mage warned.

“I’m just saying that by now, you should know that I’m not easy to get rid of.”

Geralt nodded silently.

“And you’re wondering why.” Jaskier concluded with a frown, as if he didn’t know himself.

“Being with you,” he tried, “walking alongside your horse while you hardly wait for me on a good day” – Geralt made a face – “is exhilarating. It’s like being part of something bigger than everything else, something of historical proportions.”

He made a wide gesture that explained nothing and nearly knocked over several flasks.

“I thought you only wanted song material directly from the source.”

“I guess the curse could outweigh my need for music, but not my need for adventure.”

_I miss your songs_ , Geralt nearly said, but he stopped himself just in time. If he admitted he liked listening to him, there would be no stopping him, ever, once the curse was lifted.

“You said the spell was altered?” Geralt asked, hoping to keep them on track. “What do you mean by that?”

“Corrupted, yes. It might mean that a ghost controls the spell, which shouldn’t be possible but can happen,” the mage said. She had a glint in her eye that told Geralt she loved the situation and was curious as hell about the whole thing.

“The ghoul is a ghost? A ghost ghoul? Does that even exist?” Jaskier babbled to no one in particular. “Then we will kill the ghost as well,” he said, and Geralt raised an eyebrow at that ‘we’ but didn’t comment. He’ll kill the ghost, and Jaskier will fail at following instructions.

“Maybe you should calm down a bit,” Geralt said, when Jaskier seemed already on the warpath.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier started, and Geralt threw him a pointed look. “You’ll figure it out,” Jaskier finally said, his voice uncharacteristically muted. Geralt resisted the urge to shake that absolute confidence in him out of the smaller man. He didn’t deserve such trust.

“So can you help us?” Jaskier asked the mage impatiently, fingers thrumming on the table. He fiddled with the strap of his neglected lute.

“You will need to go back to the crypt,” the mage said as she turned back to her potions. “The bard should stay here.”

“Are you sure?” Geralt hesitated. He didn’t want to put the bard in harm’s way, not with a potential monster still roaming the grounds, but he really didn’t want to leave him with a virtually unknown magic practitioner.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jaskier said, shrugging. He didn’t even argue, he just kept a wary stare on the mage.

Geralt huffed, annoyed. He agreed to fight a hypothetical ghost ghoul and retrieve a broken flask, and he hoped Jaskier wouldn’t have annoyed the mage into killing him by the time he came back. He flexed his injured leg, testing out the muscle. It smarted, but it would do.

*

“Are you back to finish the job?” a young villager greeted him as soon as Geralt stepped into town.

“Hmm?” He was distracted, thinking about curses and magic.

“The monster is back, angry as ever. It still roams the old woods at night.”

“Are you sure? Because I never saw anything there, no matter how hard I looked for it.”

“No, the beast is still there,” another boy added. He sounded adamant and scared.

“A ghost,” someone else intervened, and Geralt just shrugged.

The hunt was supposed to be quick – it was easy enough to retrace his steps down to the underground chamber where Jaskier broke the flask. The ground was still tacky with whatever it contained. The mage had said she needed the shards, but Geralt still made sure to scrape some of the dried up liquid on the floor as well.

He kept his senses alert, but this time he didn’t hear anyone shuffle behind him in what they thought was discreet sneaking. He hoped the bard was sitting still where he left him with the mage, and that he didn’t annoy her into punching him – which happened more often than one would think.

It seemed to Geralt that music – composing silly rhymes and catchy shanties full of heartfelt lies was one of Jaskier’s release mechanisms – that and all the flirting – and now that he didn’t have it anymore, he was becoming more and more unhinged.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have left his feral bard alone with a magic user after all, he thought, hurrying up. He failed to hear it coming, didn’t feel the low trepidation coursing through his medallion. Big mistake.

The beast’s eye shone in the dark, like a cat, and it pounced on him, swift and deadly. Geralt only had a second to brace for impact, his hand curling on the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it in a practiced movement. But the ghoul never hit him, claws and teeth never tore his skin. It seemed as surprised as Geralt, as it barreled across the room, going right through him.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, because it turned out the villagers were right for once.

He flicked his wrist and used Ydren before the beast could try to strike again. It hit an invisible barrier and keened, visibly annoyed. _So that was the ghost sucking up Jaskier’s will to live_ , Geralt thought, stepping forward, close enough to run his silver sword through the ghost’s gaunt abdomen. It faltered, looking as shocked as a decomposing monster could, and then it withered to the ground, turning into ashes.

Geralt gathered some of those as well, as he didn’t intend on coming back here a third time. He safely put them in his pocket and hurried back to Jaskier and the mage.

*

He nearly kicked the door off its hinges when he came back, making the mage jump and glare at him. She grabbed the small pouches Geralt laid on the table, opening them and examining their contents.

“Where is Jaskier?” Geralt growled, ready to strike.

“Calm down, he’s over there.”

She indicated an unlit corner further back with her chin. And indeed, Jaskier was sitting there in the dark, looking half alive.

“What did you do?” Geralt accused. He shook the bard, who didn’t even react, his head lolling slightly.

“I put a spell on him. He was agitated.” She shrugged.

“Undo it,” Geralt growled.

“That is not a good idea,” she warned, before flicking her wrist.

Jaskier jumped up like a devil out of his box, ready to strike, ready to yell. Geralt caught him before he could hurl himself at the mage.

“Sure, cast a spell on the cursed man, why don’t you,” he sputtered, flinging his fists, hitting Geralt – but not doing any damage.

The mage sighed and made a gesture again. Jaskier sagged all of a sudden, as if all fight had suddenly left him.

“Can I work on saving your idiot friend now?” she asked, and Geralt nodded, keeping his burden upright the best he could.

“I will ground the shards into sand,” she said. “Then I will need blood,” the mage explained.

How she could announce with all the calm in the world that she planned on making Jaskier bleed was beyond Geralt. Some creatures had no sense of self preservation, it seemed. And so he growled, very low in his throat. Jaskier roused out of his lethargy and bared his forearm, while the mage took out a sharp knife.

“Geralt, I’m fine,” Jaskier said, but his voice seemed airy and his gestures mechanical.

The witcher stayed silent after that, a frown permanently etched on his face, conveying how he would murder the mage if anything happened to the bard.

Knife met pale skin and bit into it like it was butter. Blood pooled and ran down Jaskier’s arm, all the way to his injured hand, running to the tips of his fingers and dripping into the mortar. Jaskier didn’t even wince; he watched the whole thing with a detached look, as if the arm wasn’t even his anymore. The mage seemed satisfied with the whole thing and gave him a clean rag for his arm.

“Here, let me,” Geralt offered, when he could see that it was getting nowhere. He inspected the cut – shallow and clean – and tied the cloth around his arm.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but he couldn’t wait for Jaskier to start babbling inanities again. The resigned silence was uncanny and so unlike the colorful bard that it didn’t sit right with Geralt – it wasn’t the natural order of things. He was supposed to get angry at the permanent assault of noise and Jaskier to never give a damn about it and carry on anyway. He couldn’t even imagine how it must feel for the bard to be denied his music.

Various ingredients were added to the mortar, some Geralt recognized, others he wasn’t sure of, but at this point he didn’t feel like they had much choice. Jaskier was gripping the edge of the table, with sweat on his brow and a vacant stare. Geralt wasn’t sure what, but something was about to happen.

“One more ingredient,” the mage said, looking at Geralt. “Pain.”

_Hell no_ , Geralt thought. But he forced himself to look calm when he asked, “What kind of pain?”

He wasn’t sure what would be worse though, physical or emotional pain. Jaskier didn’t deserve either, but he knew that some curses needed a spark to take root, and another to get lifted.

“Hold him,” she suggested, indicating Jaskier with a nod.

Geralt didn’t like where it was going, but at this point they had no alternative but to trust the mage. He stood behind Jaskier, strong arms encircling the smaller man. He held his arm straight, hand on the table, following the mage’s instructions and not liking the lack of reaction from Jaskier’s part. He would have loved to hear a filthy remark and to feel hips wiggling to get free. Instead, Jaskier was pliant in his arms, absent.

The mage seized his hand and guided it above the mortar. Then she took his index finger and snapped it backwards. Geralt winced and stiffened, expecting a howl, but nothing passed the bard’s lips.

The mixture underneath started bubbling, despite the absence of a heat source. Tendrils of smoke arose from the bowl and danced around the mangled hand. A tremor ran through Jaskier’s whole frame, but Geralt didn’t release his grip.

The mage spoke, ancient words, powerful ones. The smoke was like a vice now, circling Jaskier’s hand. His finger looked grotesque, painfully bent the wrong way. And yet he remained silent, trapped inside himself.

The air smelt like death for a second, and then it was over. Jaskier started screaming, hurling colorful insults at no one in particular. He bucked against him, trying to break free.

“Unhand me!” Jaskier shrieked.

He shoved and thrashed in Geralt’s grip, crying out when it jolted his hand. His finger looked _bad_ , and Geralt felt even worse. He let go and stepped back as if he had been burned.

“Ff… what…” Jaskier groaned, holding his wrist with his good hand.

Geralt nudged him to the chair and he sat down heavily.

“How the fuck am I supposed to play music now?” He sounded truly indignant, and that uncoiled something deep in Geralt’s chest – suddenly he felt as if he could breathe a little bit deeper.

“It worked,” the mage confirmed.

“Who… What…” Jaskier sputtered, looking at her like it was the first time he saw her. “Wow, your coat is a thing of beauty,” he added, and Geralt lost it. He started laughing – not a scoff, not a huff – an actual, slightly hysterical belly laugh.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked him, cocking his head to the side, his hand in his lap. But Geralt couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

“Is he alright? He’s not dying, is he?” he asked the mage with a twinge of panic in his voice now.

“I think he is merely relieved to know that you are well,” the mage said.

Jaskier frowned, probably trying to recall what led to this situation. It wouldn’t be long until he started whining again. That left only one grim question, and Geralt sobered up at the thought.

“What do I owe you?”

“You gave me enough already,” she said coyly.

At that, Jaskier whipped his head to look at Geralt, worried.

But the mage simply indicated the remnants of what Geralt brought back from the crypt. “For my own personal collection,” she said.

Jaskier’s hand shot up to touch the glass shards, but Geralt slapped it away.

“Ow! What?” Jaskier said, and Geralt felt very old and very tired all of a sudden.

*

“What do you reckon she will do with it?” Jaskier asked much later, as they settled in a small inn for the night.

“Potion,” Geralt said.

“Ah, yes, thanks. Very informative,” Jaskier railed.

But he couldn’t let it go apparently, because he tried again. “I’m just scared you know. Of what she might do to others with the curse.”

Geralt wanted to ask him what it felt like but some part of him already knew – getting stripped of your own humanity, becoming an empty shell. He shook himself out of his thoughts and looked at Jaskier, who was still expecting some kind of reassurance.

“I don’t think she plans on using it on others,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. “I believe she has been harvesting discarded magic for years now. Using it on herself.”

“To remain pretty?”

“And alive, most probably.”

“It sounds like a sad life,” Jaskier said.

He was fiddling with the lute, not quite plucking the cords, and looking forlornly at his messed up hand. The skin peeking from underneath the splint taping his first two digits together was black and blue. It would heal, the mage had assured. But it would have to heal naturally. No more magic for a while.

Geralt couldn’t say it, but he was beyond relieved to see the bard sad that he wouldn’t be able to play for a while, and to hear him muttering about brute witchers and crazy mages.

Maybe they should have discussed the whole thing a bit more. Maybe Geralt should have apologized for not seeing the magical problem right in front of his nose – or maybe Jaskier should just start taking things more seriously sometimes. They didn’t because miscommunication was their thing.

But deep down, in thoughts that he jealously kept to himself, Geralt liked the fact that even in the end, the curse was unable to shake Jaskier off. He wasn’t used to that kind of reaction – trust, admiration, friendship. He had forgotten how good it felt, and he swore to protect Jaskier and his terrible lack of self-preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's the end of that mess of a fic! I'm not good at WIPs (but I'm going to immediately start writing another one :D). Let me know what you thought, there is always room for improvement.


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